My desk is a mess this week and I don’t mind. When I get home after a crazy day at work, I find myself furiously crafting until I fall asleep, to keep my mind off of how incapable I am at my life in general. That was the circumstance every night this week.
On Monday I received the 360 yards of macrame cord that I ordered in the mail. From Pinterest, I got the idea to use two brass hoops as a base for a wall hanging, and I came up with a design that I actually really like. On Tuesday I flat out copied Elsie Goodwin’s (@reformfibers) owl macrame wall hanging, except mine definitely didn’t cost $110 to make. I’ve followed Reform Fibers for a while now, and I’ve always wanted to recreate her owl wall hanging. I made almost an exact duplicate, all by studying the design and figuring out the pattern myself. If I can figure it out, anyone can. On Wednesday I made a more refined version of the owl, using a big stick I found outside as a base. I really like how it turned out compared to Tuesday’s prototype owl. Of course mine doesn’t look as nice as Reform Fibers’, but Elsie is obviously a pro and I’m a noob.
On Thursday I spent an hour watching Peter Sheeler on Youtube. He’s a watercolor artist and is ridiculously good at the line and wash technique. I want to be able to sketch something with a permanent pen as confidently as Peter Sheeler, but there is just no way. I can’t even draw a two dimensional building. I’m working on it.
On Friday night I started making two loaves of jalapeño cheddar bread. I baked them 15 hours later, and here we are. I need real hobbies.
Last night I slept for three hours. The night before, four. It’s interesting that I used to enjoy being awake at 4:00 a.m. Especially in the summer when I keep my window open and the street is so quiet that I can literally hear the air. My first all-nighter happened when I was thirteen. I was jetlagged after a trip to Australia. I thought, wow. I love 4:00 a.m., this is my favorite time of day. I used to have these quirks about me when I was younger.
For at least the first half of my life, I constantly needed to feel “even”. If I accidentally scratched my left hand, I would do it to my right hand without a thought. If I put my hair behind my left ear, I would do it with my right ear as well. If I bit my left cheek, I would have to bite my right. I don’t remember when I stopped, but it never slowly fizzled out. I stopped all at once.
I was a left handed child, and some have told me that they can tell, based on my personality. I remember learning how to tell time in preschool. I had a laminated, grey, clock-shaped cutout in front of me. It had a brass fastener with red, moveable hands. I wrote out the numbers in the way that made sense to me. 12, 3, 6, 9, and the rest in the spaces between. The child next to me started at 12, and kept going until 11, only the 11 ended about where the 8 should be. I remember thinking that since I was able to correctly write the numbers, it was obviously because I used my left hand and he didn’t. I didn’t take into account any other factors that might’ve played into why he couldn’t write the numbers correctly. I assumed that he put as much effort into writing the numbers as I did. Why wouldn’t he? In kindergarten my parents made me switch to my right hand, but some quirks, I never dropped.
It’s February now and it hasn’t stopped raining since what feels like November. I would like to be asleep at 4:00 a.m.